


she found me (just in time)

by shineyma



Series: where we belong [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode: s01e17 Turn Turn Turn, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: There's nowhere for Jemma to run. That doesn't mean she's giving up.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Series: where we belong [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/962367
Comments: 23
Kudos: 126





	she found me (just in time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> This fic is a Christmas present for the wonderful, SPECTACULAR JD. I hope your Christmas was wonderful and happy and full of joy, hon! <3 <3 <3
> 
> And I hope the rest of you are having good holidays that are free of stress and full of delicious winter treats!
> 
> This is part of my [where we belong](https://shineyma.tumblr.com/tagged/verse%3A-where-we-belong/chrono) 'verse, but you...might not need to read the rest to understand it? Hard to say for sure, but if you're confused, the other fics can be found at the link. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! Merry Christmas! <3 <3 <3

Jemma runs.

It’s pointless, really, but something in her, some stubborn streak of optimism—or, more likely, stubborn streak of stubbornness—urges her on nonetheless. So what if there’s really nowhere to go? If these Hydra bastards want to kill her, she’s going to bloody well make them work for it.

She may be tired and aching and alone, stumbling over nothing as she swipes blood out of her eyes and all too aware of the thousands of miles that separate her from her team, but she’s not about to lay down and die. Not ever.

They’ll kill her as soon as they catch her, but they have to catch her first.

With that in mind, she never slows down. Not as broken lights spark overhead, not as her ankle throbs—not even as there’s a loud _BANG_ and a flash of light from just around the turn she’s approaching. It’s worrying, but it can’t be worse than what’s behind her. She doesn’t pause.

At least not until she recognizes the broad shoulders of the man picking himself up the floor twenty feet down the corridor.

“Ward!” she shouts, and he whirls to face her.

Relief gives her an extra burst of speed; she sprints the distance between them and reaches him in seconds. She doesn’t quite slow down in time, some combination of her exhaustion, her momentum, and her sprained ankle working against her, but Ward catches her by the shoulders and steadies her.

Jemma could cry.

 _Could_ , but won’t. Her chances of survival have dramatically increased; she’s not about to bring them back down by blubbering in the middle of an emergency.

So she says “They’re right behind me!” instead. Perhaps equally as useless—he’s not likely to think she’s sprinting around in the dark for her own amusement—but at least it’s informative. Informative enough to make his face darken.

“Hydra?” he asks—rhetorically, she presumes, as he doesn’t pause for her confirmation. (And also, it’s not as though it could be anyone else. There’s an uprising happening here.) “They hurt you?”

As he asks, he releases one of her shoulders in favor of tipping her chin up, the better to examine the wound on her forehead. It’s the sort of show of concern that never fails to warm her, but his scowl draws her attention to his jaw—or, more specifically, the amount of stubble covering it.

Jemma is no expert in facial hair, but she’s fairly certain that’s several days’ worth of stubble. Several days’ worth more than he had when the team dropped her off here.

Just how long was she unconscious?

“Never mind that,” she says, shaking that off. “They’re _right behind me_ , Ward, we need to _move_ —”

His eyes shift past her and narrow.

“Too late,” he mutters, then presses gently on her shoulder. “Get behind me.”

“But—”

“ _Now_ , Simmons,” he says, and even though she’d much rather be running, she allows him to move her.

It’s a wide corridor, and even with Ward’s bulk sheltering her, she can clearly see the approach of the men who’ve chased her halfway across the Hub. The one she hit with the microscope is in the lead; she recognizes him by the crookedness of his nose and the blood smeared across the lower half of his face.

Satisfaction fills her at the sight, even as she’s expecting to be killed at any moment. It’s something of a shock when the cadre of thugs slows to a stop instead.

“Ward?” one of them asks.

“Sorry, boys,” Ward says casually. “This one’s mine.”

As Jemma gapes, most of the men who have relentlessly pursued her across _half the bloody Hub_ stand down. They even holster their guns! So relaxed are they, one of them actually pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a swig.

The man in the lead isn’t quite so ready to let it go, however. “Seriously?” he demands. “The bitch broke my nose, man!”

“Seriously,” Ward says flatly. “Mine.”

There must be more to that, some expression or gesture that she misses, because the man’s angry scowl melts into sulky resignation after a pause. Grumbling, he slams his gun into its holster.

“Fucking fine,” he mutters.

“Now was that so hard?” Ward asks. Then he reaches back to grasp her hand, tugs her a little closer, and adds, “Hail Hydra.”

It punches the breath from her.

Ward—no. _No_.

Frozen by horror, she can only watch as the men assembled in front of them raise their arms in some strange salute and chorus, “Hail Hydra!” in return.

She’s so busy staring and reeling, she doesn’t see Ward draw his gun. One moment he’s just standing there; the next, he’s shooting the man with the broken nose. The one to his left is next, and then another, and the rest follow in short order, gunned down so quickly that they don’t have time to do anything more than shout and fumble for their own weapons.

It’s over in a matter of seconds. Then it’s just Jemma and Ward, alone in a corridor full of corpses.

The sound of the last gunshot seems to hang heavy in the air. Jemma’s heart thunders in her ears.

“What?” she asks faintly.

Ward exhales heavily and holsters his gun. “I am so glad that worked.”

“What?”

Jemma only realizes that he’s still holding her hand ( _holding her hand_ , he shot all of those men _one-handed_ ) when he uses it to pull her into motion. She stumbles a few steps after him, then plants her feet as she registers how close they’re drawing to the men he just shot.

“Wait,” she says. “Just…wait.”

Looking down at her with a face full of polite curiosity, Ward does.

“You—you’re Hydra?” It actually hurts to ask it; Jemma swallows convulsively.

He doesn’t seem affected at all. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“ _Sometimes_?” she echoes. That doesn’t make any sense. It’s a global terrorist organization, not a—a _book club_. “But you—they just—I don’t understand.”

“Right,” he says, “let me make it easier on you. I’m not your Grant.”

…That clears up absolutely nothing. In fact, it only confuses her further. “You what?”

“I’m not your Grant,” he repeats. “I’m from another universe.”

Jemma takes a moment to consider that, turning the words over in her mind, contemplating possible interpretations…but no. It’s still nonsense.

“Kind of in the middle of saving the multiverse,” Ward (not Ward?) adds, giving her hand a friendly squeeze. “Which means I need to get you back to your me so that I can find my you. Come on.”

Helplessly lost and more than a little overwhelmed, she doesn’t argue. She just follows him back the way she came and hopes that things will start making sense soon.

+++

For once, all of the team’s questions are totally reasonable. How did Simmons escape the Hub, why is she wearing tac gear, where’d she get the gun, _how did she appear in the middle of the briefing room when the Bus is midflight_ —they’re all things that Grant wants to know, too.

Too bad Simmons is more concerned with pressing buttons on the little blue device she’s holding than answering questions. Well, that and darting the occasional narrow-eyed look at Grant, but he figures that’s to be expected after the way he slammed her into the wall. (Not his fault; she appeared without warning in his personal space and she’s _armed_. She’s just lucky he recognized her before he could pull the trigger.) He’s probably gonna be making up for that for a while.

Grant’ll give Fitz and Skye this, though; they’re sure as hell persistent. Even as Simmons completely ignores them, they don’t slow down with the questions.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Is anyone important Hydra?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh! Did Collins finally get that teleport pad to work?”

That, of all things, gets Simmons to look up. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fitz. Collins couldn’t engineer his way out of a wet paper bag.”

There’s a second of actual, tangible annoyance that _this_ is the question she’s chosen to answer, and then Coulson clears his throat.

“Now that you’re back with us,” he says, with just a little bit of disappointed-dad in his tone over her making them wait, “care to explain?”

Simmons heaves a heavy sigh and tucks away her little blue thing.

“To make a very long, complicated story short,” she says, “I’m not your Jemma.”

After a beat to absorb that, Coulson asks, “No?”

“No,” she confirms, grimacing. “Judging by your questions, I take it your Jemma is at the Hub?”

“Yeah,” Grant says, heart sinking. If she’s _not_ Simmons, then actual Simmons is still… “In a hell of a lot of danger.”

“Mm.” Fake Simmons frowns to herself. “Is Trip with her?”

Grant’s “Why would Trip be with her?” overlaps with Fitz’s “Who’s Trip?” and Skye’s “Who are _you_?” is just a beat behind.

Simmons makes an impatient noise.

“Put simply, I’m a version of Jemma from another universe. The walls between universes—not just ours, _all_ of them—are unraveling. I can fix them, but I have to visit each individual universe to fix its walls.”

Personally, Grant needs a second to recover from that, but of course Fitz is all over it.

“What, _every_ universe?” he demands. “But that would take—there are an infinite number of potential—”

“No, no,” she interrupts. “Not all of them. Once the walls of one universe are fixed, there’s a cascading effect that strengthens the walls of branching universes. We—well, I say we, truly I mean _I_ —have theorized that once I’ve visited a certain number of universes, the overall structure will be sufficiently reinforced to repair itself.”

Fitz rocks back on his heels, visibly considering this. “How many?”

“That, I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s been one hundred and seven so far.”

Skye whistles. May frowns.

“You’re doing this alone?” she asks—and now that Grant’s recovered from the bombshell, he’s right there with her. He almost shot her when she popped in like that; another specialist, one who didn’t know her (or think he did, at least), wouldn’t have hesitated. It’s fucking dangerous for her to be doing alone.

Thankfully, Simmons shakes her head. “No. My version of Ward is traveling with me.”

…Now that, that throws him. Another him?

While he reels, Skye perks up—about to make another robot joke, if he’s any judge—but then pauses. “So where is he?”

It’s an excellent question. Of course Simmons ignores it.

“As I said, I’ve visited over one hundred universes. Some of them are very different, but others fall into a similar pattern—following the path of my own universe.” She crosses her arms, looking grave and gaunt in the odd light of the holocom. “I was at the Hub during the uprising, too. There was an agent named Antoine Triplett there with me, and he saved my life. If your Jemma is alone…the sooner you get to her, the better.”

+++

Jemma spends hours trailing Ward through the Hub, hiding or running or pretending to be unconscious at his direction. The phrase _Hail Hydra_ opens no end of doors for them, but no matter how useful it is, it never stops making her ill. Especially the ease with which Ward voices it—and most of all, the ease with which it’s accepted.

There’s a horrible suspicion unfolding in her mind. She does her best to ignore it.

In their brief safe moments, she peppers him with questions. How is he saving the multiverse? _Why_ is he saving the multiverse? How did it come to be in danger? Precisely how did he travel from his universe to her own? How is his universe different from this one?

He brushes off most of her questions with easy, apologetic smiles. His version of her has all the details, he claims; he’s only the muscle. He does give her a cryptic warning about avoiding any giant rocks that can liquefy themselves—that way only lies trouble, he claims—but that’s the closest she gets to answers.

“All right, then,” she pants as he helps her over a large pile of rubble. They’re getting close to the hangar, but—perhaps unsurprisingly—the closer they get, the worse damage they find. “If it’s your me I have to ask, where is she?”

“Hard to say,” he admits. “We went through the same portal at the same time—she should be _here_.”

He sounds casual and unconcerned, but that’s Ward all over, isn’t it? Always so inscrutable.

“Do you think something went wrong?” she asks.

“Must be.” They’re back on steady ground; he takes her hand in his again. “Last universe we visited, there was this supervillain messing with the weather. Made our trip in a little rough—you explained it, something about atmospheric excitation?—and I guess it’d make sense it messed with the trip out, too. Probably.”

He looks at her a touch expectantly, but Jemma can only shrug. She doesn’t know enough of how or what he and her other self are doing to offer an opinion on the science. Truly, she wouldn’t even know where to _begin_ in breaching dimensional barriers.

…Although, theoretically…

“My turn for a question, then,” Ward says, distracting her before she can get at all far down that mental path. “Only fair, right?”

“I suppose,” she agrees, a bit tentatively.

“You know a guy named Will Daniels?” he asks.

She’s not certain what precisely she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. “No.”

“Good.” He nods to himself, appearing satisfied. “Avoid him at all costs. Guy ruins everything.”

Oh, that sounds bad—but before she can press for details, there’s a distant shout and an explosion that’s not nearly distant enough.

“Move,” Ward snaps, and just like that, they’re off again.

+++

There are too many variables involved to come up with any kind of detailed rescue plan for Simmons, but they come up with a bare bones, easily adaptable outline pretty quick.

Unfortunately, nothing can be done for the fact that it’ll be hours before they reach the Hub. Once the planning is complete, May wanders back to the cockpit—the better to glare the Bus into breaking the sound barrier, probably—but the rest of them don’t have any such convenient distraction.

Naturally, Fitz and Skye take this as an excellent opportunity to question the Simmons they’ve got.

It’s no surprise that her more detailed explanation of the whole multiverse-saving thing involves lots of science, but it’s easy enough to tune out. Honestly, Grant’s more interested in what she _doesn’t_ say. There’s something she’s leaving out—some detail, significant or not, that she’s deliberately weaving around.

Makes a guy wonder.

“Why us?” he asks eventually.

Simmons barely looks at him. “Why you what?”

“No, why _us_?” he stresses. “Of all possible combinations, why’s it you and me saving the multiverse?”

That draws her full attention. For a long moment, she considers him—the same way he’s seen his own Simmons consider an interesting specimen, like if she just _stares_ long enough it’ll cough up all its secrets. It sends a strange chill up his spine.

“Is John Garrett your SO?” she asks eventually.

Grant’s heart misses a beat. Speaking of secrets…all those universes she’s visited, what are the odds she’s met a him who was Hydra? Hydra and not undercover?

Does she know?

“Yeah,” he says—has to say—after a second. He can’t lie about it; even if it doesn’t get revealed right this second, it easily could someday, and it’d only make Fitz and Skye suspicious.

“Yes,” Simmons murmurs. “I thought he might be.”

Her eyes are cold, missing all of the warmth of his own Simmons. Just this morning, that Simmons was scoffing at him—promising that she’d be _fine_ alone at the Hub. She just had a little presentation to give, nothing to worry about, no reason to delay a mission she wouldn’t be needed on. The Hub’s a SHIELD base. There was no reason to expect she’d face anything more dangerous than a heckler at her speech.

She was exasperated by his (strictly for the cover) unnecessary concern, but she thanked him for it—for _caring_ —before they left. Looked at him with her big doe eyes and made him promise to take care of himself.

This version of Simmons…she’s hot, he can’t deny that. The tac gear, the gun, the clear superiority complex—it’s a very good look. But he thinks he likes his version better, heart-patterned shirts and all.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Skye demands, and it shocks him back to the very pressing issue at hand.

This Simmons almost definitely knows he’s Hydra. It’s time for a distraction.

“Better question,” he says. “Where am I? Your me. You didn’t answer before.”

Her mouth tightens, and her eyes drop to the little blue thing—her universe hopper, she called it—she’s been cradling in her hands for the last twenty minutes or so.

“That,” she says delicately, “is a very good question.”

“Wait.” Grant sits forward, offended on his other self’s behalf. “You don’t _know_? Did you leave him somewhere or…?”

“Of course not,” she snaps, impatient.

“What then?” Skye presses. Her eyes go wide; she drops her voice. “He’s not _dead_ , is he?”

Simmons looks away.

“There was…interference,” she admits at length, “with the last portal we came through. I have two hypotheses.”

“And?” Grant prompts when she doesn’t elaborate.

“The hopper is supposed to draw us to each universe’s version of me,” she says. “But I ended up here, while my other self is thousands of miles away. Theoretically, it could be that the interference caused a sort of split in the portal, so I was sent to Ward’s other self while he was sent to mine.”

“Hope so,” Fitz mutters. “Don’t like to think of Jemma alone out there.”

“Fingers crossed,” Skye agrees. “Ward’ll protect Simmons.”

The faith is touching, if maybe a little misplaced. Grant doesn’t know that _he’d_ go to any particular lengths to protect _this_ Simmons—maybe for the sake of his cover, but if it were just the two of them, alone in a hostile base? Would he really bother?

He doesn’t know…and doesn’t know what to think of the way his stomach turns at the thought of some other version of him abandoning his own Simmons to death or brainwashing.

If the other Simmons is thinking along similar lines, it’s impossible to tell. She blinks slowly down at her hopper, cold face set in unreadable lines.

“Yes,” she says. “He will.”

“What’s the other option?” Grant asks, and her eyes snap up to meet his.

“The other option,” she says, very slowly, “is that the interference destabilized the portal and it failed after I was through.”

Her tone is heavy. It makes him uneasy. Skye, too, if the furrow in her brow is any indication.

Fitz just looks horrified.

“What would that mean?” Grant asks.

Simmons presses her lips together and doesn’t answer.

“Fitz?” Skye asks.

“Well.” Fitz fidgets in place, broadcasting discomfort. “I mean—I haven’t looked at the science myself, of course. But based on what Jem’s said, I imagine he—well, he would—completely theoretically—”

“ _Fitz_ ,” Grant snaps, before Fitz can stammer himself into a corner. “Straight answer.”

“He’d be torn apart,” Fitz rushes out. “Reduced to microscopic—microscopic _specks_ polluting the space between universes.”

Nobody’s got anything to say to that.

+++

Eventually, they reach the hangar. Like the rest of the Hub, it’s full to bursting with Hydra agents, but Ward doesn’t hesitate.

“Piece of cake,” he says, releasing Jemma’s hand in favor of gripping her upper arm. “Just look scared as you can, okay? Maybe throw in some heartbreak for good measure.”

Surrounded by Hydra agents, her horrible suspicion grown into near-certainty, nothing has ever been so simple. She must make quite a pathetic picture as Ward tows her across the hangar.

And the further they get, the further her heart sinks. The traitors around them look at Ward without concern. They greet him by name—and he greets them in turn. No one questions what he’s doing with her. Several of them congratulate him on his _prize_.

By the time they’re settled in a quinjet, Jemma doesn’t know whether she’s going to cry or vomit.

“You’re Hydra, aren’t you?” she asks.

Ward’s hands still on the controls.

“My version of you, I mean,” she clarifies, voice tremulous.

“Who’s to say?” he shrugs. “Been to universes where our whole team was Hydra, where no one was Hydra, where Hydra’d never existed and where it’d taken over in the forties. There’s never any way of telling.”

He means to reassure her, she thinks. It’s very kind of him. But…

“Yes, there is,” she disagrees. “Because you just walked us past dozens of Hydra agents without earning so much as a raised eyebrow.” She takes a slow, deep breath, fighting back her nausea. “That wouldn’t have worked if he weren’t Hydra.”

He keeps his attention fixed on taking off and doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.

She has to swallow before she can speak again. “Will he hurt the others?”

Ward sighs.

“Every universe is different,” he says. “I really can’t know for sure. But…even odds he’ll try to avoid it.” He gives her a long, unreadable look. “I ended up in Hydra because the closest thing I had to a father—the only family I had—pulled me into it. I had nowhere else to go. If he’s the same…”

“If he’s the same?” she prompts. She’s desperate to know. She wants to believe that her Ward is Hydra because of a bad influence and not genuine belief.

She wants there to be hope.

“Just…don’t give up on him too soon,” Ward suggests. “He’ll fight as long as he can to have it both ways—to be Hydra _and_ a part of the team. Eventually, he’ll realize he can’t. And if the team’s not an option anymore…”

“Then Hydra’s all he’ll have,” Jemma finishes.

It’s…not entirely reassuring. The man Jemma knows—thought she knew—would reject Hydra out of hand. He would know that Hydra is never the right answer, regardless of whether there are any other answers to be had. If he’s the sort of man who would do evil so easily, does she really know him at all?

Still, it’s hope. She can do a lot with hope.

“All right,” she says. “I won’t give up too soon. I’m very good at not giving up.”

Even with the horrible revelation of his allegiances, the smile Ward gives her warms her all the way through. “I know you are.”

He sounds so—so _fond_. Jemma might be blushing.

Oh, and now she’s self-conscious about possibly blushing, which means that she’ll definitely _start_ blushing if she isn’t already, and soon it will be an inevitable cycle of mortification.

She desperately needs a change of subject. Fortunately, there’s one quite easily at hand.

“How will we find the team?” she asks.

In answer, Ward takes a headset off the hook beside him and holds it out.

“Not the Dark Ages,” he says. “I figured we’d just call ‘em.”

+++

Skye and Fitz have moved out of uncomfortable silence and into uncomfortable chatter to fill the silence when the intercom dings.

“Change of plans,” May announces. “Simmons isn’t at the Hub. She and Ward are in a quinjet headed our way. ETA three hours.”

Grant’s not about to go leaping out of his seat and joining Skye and Fitz’s desperate, teary hug of relief, but—he’s not _not_ there with them.

Simmons is alive. Thank fuck.

The other him’s survival is nice, too, of course, but it’s really Simmons he’s been worrying about. Enough so that he feels moved to scrub a hand over his face, like he can just brush away the stress of the last few hours.

When his hand drops, he finds the other Simmons watching him suspiciously.

“What?” he asks.

“You and the other me,” she says lowly—too lowly to be heard by Skye and Fitz— “You’re not…together, are you?”

The hell? “Uh, no.”

“Not dating or engaged or—” She makes a face— “Engaging in secret, illicit, no-strings-attached intercourse?”

“ _No_ ,” he repeats, more forcefully. Then he actually thinks about it. “Wait, are you—”

“God, no,” Simmons interrupts, shuddering. “But we’ve seen it.”

“Often?” he asks. Maybe that’s what prompted the question.

Her mouth twitches. “No. Just once or twice. Very rare occurrence.”

It doesn’t _sound_ like she’s lying—and usually, with Simmons, that’d mean she wasn’t, because Simmons is an endearingly awful liar.

But if it’s so rare, why’d she ask?

(Also, now he’s thinking about secret, illicit, no-strings-attached sex with his Simmons. It’s not a bad thought.)

+++

Jemma’s reunion with the team is predictably effusive. There are hugs, tears, and admonishments in equal measure, along with no small degree of fussing over her head injury and (after running on it, very severely) sprained ankle. She has no time to do anything more than thank the alternate Ward and greet the alternate her before the two of them are off, walls here fixed and others waiting.

It’s hours before she gets her own Ward alone. They’ve set down in some random field somewhere, conserving fuel while Coulson decides where they’re going to go, and she finds him in the briefing room, keeping watch through the Bus’ exterior cameras.

“Hey.” He straightens as she enters, giving her a quick, evaluating once-over. His eyes linger on her ankle—ready, as ever, to catch her if she stumbles. “How you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says. “Just a few scratches, thanks to you.”

He laughs under his breath. “That was pretty weird, huh? Visitors from another universe.”

“It was,” she agrees, “but that’s not what I meant.”

His brow furrows in confusion. She can’t help but wonder whether it’s genuine or affectation.

She can’t help but wonder if this is a terrible mistake.

But he hugged her, too, when she arrived. He’s never done that before, but he did it today. Surely if it were all a lie—if his care for the team was only based in deception—he would have stuck to his usual pattern. Surely.

 _Don’t give up on him too easily_ , that’s what the other him said. And Jemma doesn’t intend to.

“He did save me,” she says. “But it was only possible because of you. Because…” The rest of the team is asleep, no chance of them being overheard, but she still finds herself lowering her voice. “Because all of those Hydra agents recognized him as one of them.”

Ward jerks like—like he’s been literally shocked, run through with electricity.

“Simmons…”

“I haven’t said anything,” she promises. “And I won’t, so long as you do nothing to endanger the team.”

He stares.

“The other you said—or implied, rather—that he never had a choice but to be Hydra.” She meets his eyes steadily. She’s afraid, there’s likely no hiding that, but she does trust him. He’s saved her countless times, done so much good. He’s part of her team. She hopes there’s no hiding that, either. “So this is me. Giving you a choice.”

He wets his lips, opens his mouth, and hesitates. Then he shakes his head. “Simmons, I don’t—”

“It’s all right,” she interrupts. “You don’t need to make me any promises. You don’t even need to make a decision now. I just wanted you to know that I know. And that…”

Her courage falters for a moment. Ward takes a step closer. His eyes are dark.

“That what?” he asks quietly.

“That you’re better than that,” she says. “Than being Hydra. I believe that.”

Spoken aloud, it feels girlish and silly and naïve. Suddenly embarrassed, she retreats.

“That’s all I wanted to say. Goodnight.”

He doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t agree to choose SHIELD—choose their team—over Hydra.

But he doesn’t refuse, either. He doesn’t make any move to threaten or silence her.

She’ll take that hope. And she won’t give up on him.

+++

(One Simmons saved, one Simmons located, and his streak of not being shot at is now five universes long. Even if he can’t add this universe to his relationship count, Grant’s still chalking this one up as a good day. He’s in a good enough mood that he’s even kind of looking forward to the scolding he assumes is forthcoming when his Simmons pulls him away from the reunited team.

What’s it gonna be this time, he wonders. Will she suggest he took advantage of her other self? Accuse him of causing their separation? Blame the entire uprising on him again?

He thinks he’s ready for anything—Simmons can be amusingly creative in what all she’ll blame him for—and he almost is. When she fists a hand in the collar of his tac vest and yanks him down to her level, he’s not surprised at all.

The kiss, on the other hand, shocks the hell out of him.

It’s a harsh thing, angry and punishing, that ends way too fucking soon. It leaves him wanting—wanting and _gaping_ , as Simmons takes a step back and smooths her hair.

“Let’s go,” she says, and the slight hoarseness to her voice is the only hint she’s at all affected.

Grant can’t really feel his face, but if Simmons’ slight wince is any indication, his smile must be just as smug as he means it to be.

“You were worried,” he says, satisfied.

“Don’t be absurd,” she snaps, and gestures pointedly to the portal that’s sprung up beside them at some point. (He completely missed her activating the ‘verse hopper. That’s embarrassing.) “Let’s _go_.”

“You were worried,” he repeats, and now he _can_ feel how smug his smirk—not smile—is. He softens it a little, makes it more teasing; let her keep a little pride. “I’m not moving ‘till you admit it.”

Her jaw works silently for a minute. “I’m…not unhappy that you weren’t atomized.”

Being atomized does _not_ sound fun, but Grant decides not to worry about it. He’d much rather think about the very attractive flush painting her cheeks—and about that kiss. He’s gonna be spending a _lot_ of time thinking about that kiss.

“Was that so hard?” he asks.

“Portal,” she bites out. “Now.” She extends an arm. “You first.”

Oh, yeah. She was _so_ worried.

Grinning, Grant steps into the portal. One hundred and seven universes and they’re together in eighty-nine of them. His goal is to add their own universe to the count before they hit three hundred, and right now?

He likes his chances.)


End file.
